


Lessons Learned

by Morgan_Stuart



Series: The Sofie Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Friendship, Gen, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Stuart/pseuds/Morgan_Stuart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hostage situation at 221B Baker Street proves that not all dangers come from Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 of 2

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous thanks to those of you who expressed interest in another instalment of the Sofie Series, as well as the generous and patient community members at [the sh_britglish community](http://sh_britglish.livejournal.com).
> 
> This is the fourth story in [the Sofie Series](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/tag/the%20sofie%20series%20%28sherlock%29), which begins with ["Mouth of Babes"](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/5636.html) and continues in ["Facing Forward"](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/7712.html) and ["Sentry Duty"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/235354). This takes place after (and indirectly refers to) the _Sherlock_ episode "The Great Game."
> 
> This universe does not belong to me; I'm just an appreciative visitor. I make no profit from this fan work.

Later, John Watson mused that he should've paid more attention in his philosophy course. Surely there was a precise name for the error in reasoning that he'd made.

The starting premise was solid enough: All things that came from Jim Moriarty were dangerous (with "dangerous" in this case defined as cruel, harmful, and potentially deadly).

So far, so good.

Since that night at the pool, John's mistake had been assuming that all dangers in the near future, therefore, would come from Jim Moriarty.

He had not been alone in making this error.

Experience, however, was a harsh and unforgiving pedagogue. None of them would soon forget their lesson.

***

"Smile, Mrs Hudson!" Sofie's voice carried up the stairs. John opened the door to the flat and stepped onto the landing, smiling down at the little girl's father. Lestrade appeared pleasantly rumpled and comfortably harried; the grin with which he answered John rose up to his brown eyes and shone there.

"Running a bit late," he rasped. "C'mon, sweetheart. Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

Sofie swung around the post to stand on the first step of the staircase. There she paused, arms outstretched, striking a pose.

"Hi, John! See my new uniform-that's-not-actually-a-uniform-but-really-it-is?"

"You look so grown up!" John said, and he meant it. Her matching jumper and skirt were a subdued dark charcoal, her shirt and knee socks a rich claret. A single, thick braid of dark hair draped over her shoulder. "Quite sophisticated."

"Thanks. The jumper _itches_ , though."

Following behind her as she climbed the stairs, Lestrade rolled his eyes. "She insisted on wearing it today so she could show you two."

"I'm honoured," John said. When Sofie reached him, he leaned down to give and receive a hug.

Only when she'd passed him, dashing into the flat to find Sherlock, did John note the backpack she wore. It took the form of a plush snowy owl: Hedwig, of course.

"Ruins the 'grown up' effect a bit, yeah?" Lestrade chuckled. "Fine by me. I'm afraid she's half-convinced herself she's going to Hogwarts, though."

It had been several weeks since work allowed Lestrade to enjoy a full day with his daughter, and just as long since she'd graced the threshold of 221B Baker Street. John and Lestrade entered the cluttered sitting room side by side, taking in the sight of Sofie modelling her new clothes for the man who had done so much to secure her future safety and happiness.

For this visit Sherlock had foregone his pyjamas and dressing gown for proper clothes, something of a milestone in his slow recovery.

John forced himself to focus on the pleased expression that transformed his flatmate's finely-drawn features. Better that than dwelling on how the purple shirt and dark jeans, once almost obscenely form-fitting, now hung shapelessly on Sherlock's raw-boned frame.

One step at a time, John told himself. We'll get there. We _are_ getting there. Every day.

"I see your recent shopping efforts have done nothing for your own wardrobe," Sherlock offered by way of greeting, eyeing Lestrade's bland shirt and trousers without enthusiasm.

"Not my shopping efforts: I stay well out of it," Lestrade explained. "Sofie's now assembled her own dream team to advise on her back-to-school look, including" – he ticked the list off on his fingers – "one grandmother with timeless taste, one detective sergeant with style and attitude, and one personal assistant of a 'minor government official' with her finger on the pulse of the fashion world.

"Me," he said, "I keep my head down and mouth shut. I just set the spending limit, pay the bills, and admire the final results."

"Wise man," John said.

Making room for Sofie to climb up and sit beside him on the sofa, Sherlock shifted his laptop. Indicating its screen, he said, "It seems there are new developments with former members of the Carleton syndicate."

"Some," Lestrade frowned. "Unexpected, so I'm told."

"Wasn't that the family—"

Lestrade shot a meaningful glance in Sofie's direction as he interrupted. "Years ago, yeah. Not exactly welcome news, as you can imagine."

John considered the two men, making a mental note to ask Sherlock about the matter later.

"Reckon this is related to…?" Lestrade let the question trail off, unfinished.

Him, John thought to himself. Moriarty. Like Voldemort: You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"No," Sherlock said. With a frustrated jerk of his head, he added, "At least, not _yet_."

Lestrade let out a gusty sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Small favours, eh?" He shook himself, as if resisting a chill, and rallied against the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. "In other news," he continued, "Sofie has a new mobile—"

At this, the little girl held the device aloft in a triumphant hand.

"— _for emergencies only_." Lestrade's emphasis suggested that this had been a subject of considerable negotiation. "Not for sending pictures of Mrs Taylor's new guinea pigs. Not for ringing about how many times she's spotted a yellow car. Not for texting that she's found nail polish the exact colour of the T.A.R.D.I.S."

Sofie nodded agreement, solemnity warring with merriment in her wide eyes.

"Tinkering with it put us behind schedule this morning," Lestrade continued. "I promised her a chocolate éclair as a special treat for breakfast, and, well. Hasn't happened yet, has it?" Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, brow furrowed. "I could, um, run to the bakery down the street…"

"Go on then," John said. "She's fine here."

"Of course," Sherlock added. "Sofie can tell us her latest news."

"Right. Thanks. Won't be a minute." Clapping his hands decisively, Lestrade asked, "And what can I bring you two?"

With a negligent wave, Sherlock declined the offer.

"I'll have what Sofie's having," John said. "And grab an extra one, will you? Sherlock pretends he's not interested now, but later he'll try to nick mine. Or hers."

Sherlock glared, but he didn't argue.

"Will do. I'll see if Mrs Hudson cares for anything. Sofie, mind your manners, all right?"

Already holding out her mobile for Sherlock's closer inspection, Sofie laughed. "I _will_ , Daddy. 'Bye!"

"And Lestrade—" John began, voice pitched low.

"I know. I'll be careful."

With a casual salute, Lestrade disappeared through the door and closed it behind him.

***

"I put everyone's pictures with their numbers in my contacts list. See?" Sofie's nimble fingers played over the phone's screen. The two flatmates leaned close, an attentive audience.

The first picture showed Mrs Hudson smiling and waving her hand. Beneath her photo was "Mrs H" followed by the landlady's number.

Then came the likeness of Sergeant Donovan, her arms crossed, her head on one side, a bold, cheeky grin on her face. "Sally," the caption read above her contact information.

The next image was that of a familiar young woman peering over the top of a Blackberry, one eye closed in a conspiratorial wink. The only label above the number was a single "A."

After that followed a photo of a lone umbrella leaning against an elegantly panelled wall. No name was given, and asterisks obscured the digits of the number.

Half of the leaders of the Free World would kill for such access, John thought, fighting a grin. And the other half doesn't have high enough clearance even to appreciate that they should.

Mycroft, you terrifying, Orwellian old softie.

The next picture revealed a woman of faintly exotic features – was she of Eurasian heritage, perhaps? – with hair that fell in a straight and shining chin-length curtain of black and silver. John could tell that she was old enough to be his own mother, but she remained undeniably attractive to his eyes, her dignity only enhanced by her years. Her lips curved in a half-smile that was no less warm for its subtlety.

"Gran," the screen read.

So that was Julia, the mother of Lestrade's late wife.

The final photo, presumably the first taken, was one of Lestrade himself. As always he appeared tired and somewhat dishevelled, complete with stubbled jaw and ruffled hair, but he wore a simple tee-shirt and denim jacket instead of his customary dark suit. The openness of his tender expression was almost painful in its vulnerability. Moved, John glanced away, offering privacy to the unguardedness of that preserved moment.

"Now it's your turn," Sofie declared. Then, with sudden uncertainty, "I can, can't I? You'll be my contacts?"

"Are you joking?" John said, nudging her with a friendly elbow. "'Course we will."

"Me first," Sherlock demanded, straightening where he sat as Sofie stood and readied the mobile's camera. As she concentrated, her tongue peeked out at an angle from between her lips.

After a moment, she giggled. "That's it! That's you! That's your look!"

Then, "Oh, it's blurry. I moved too much. Sorry. One more time."

"I have a look," Sherlock informed John. After a beat, he thought to ask Sofie, "What is my look, exactly? Be precise."

"Hmmm… like music is playing in the background, even when it's quiet, and wind is blowing in your hair, even when you're indoors." Blinking at him over her phone, she added, "Like you should be wearing a cape. _All the time_."

Sherlock seemed inordinately pleased.

Once he approved of his photo – a process that required four separate portraits to be taken – he accepted the mobile and typed in his number, then added Sofie's to his own.

Throughout the process, John bit his lip, shook his head, and swallowed his laughter.

When his own turn came, he sat square-shouldered and grinning, hoping he looked _John_ enough for Sofie's taste.

Apparently he didn’t.

"That's not you," she said. "It's polite, but it's not the way you smile at me. Your eyes are all soft and secret when you look at me" – she thought a moment – "like I know what you really are. Because I do."

"What I really am?" John braced himself for her particularly uncensored brand of honesty, a bit unnerved by Sherlock's keen interest in their exchange.

"On the outside you're… you know, like a meerkat."

Ah, familiar territory, this. John wondered whether it was more pathetic for a man his age to be pleased at being compared to a meerkat on the outside, or to be disappointed that he wasn't considered a meerkat on the inside, too.

Quite pathetic either way, he decided, and he sighed.

"And on the inside?" The question brought no little dread, but he'd come this far.

"A ninja," Sofie said with obvious satisfaction.

"A ninja," John echoed, bemused.

Sofie turned to Sherlock for backup. "I'm right, aren't I?"

As John steeled himself for Sherlock's inevitable snide remark, the consulting detective pinned him with a penetrating stare that turned suddenly, inexplicably… delighted.

"You are indeed," Sherlock said. "Well spotted."

Sofie nodded, vindicated.

The resulting photo showed a John Watson with pink cheeks and a crooked, goofy grin, but he wasn't particularly fussed.

***

"'Hack' is a value-laden and ignorant term, John, the refuge of—"

"Be that as it may," John interrupted, "somehow I think that teaching his daughter to hack her phone violates the spirit of trust we have with Lestrade. _In loco parentis_ and all that."

Muted sounds downstairs, barely audible, might or might not have been voices.

John stretched, grunted, and rose. "I'm going to make tea." His limp remained pronounced, but it couldn't be described as a full-fledged hobble anymore. His cane sat next to the door gathering dust, unused now for ten straight days. John took his victories where he found them.

Over his shoulder, he offered, "Honestly, I can't believe I'm saying this, but why don't you show Sofie your latest experiment?" It might represent simply another effort at exploring Moriarty's methods – in this case, the chemical tagging of surveilled subjects – but John had to admit that it was interesting, especially compared to Sherlock's past endeavours. At least no eyeballs had found their way into the microwave for this one.

Sofie's mobile disappeared into her backpack, and the next moment she was eagerly extending her hand to Sherlock.

Footfalls thumped on the steps.

Sherlock accepted Sofie's assistance with a curt nod of thanks and levered himself to his feet, wavering only for an instant as he sought balance. Then, apparently satisfied that all mending limbs and joints were in order, he aimed the two of them in the direction of the kitchen table and the creative chaos he'd nurtured there.

A knock came at the door.

"Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?" Mrs Hudson's voice piped through the wood, reed-thin and strained.

For a heartbeat, John's puzzled gaze met his flatmate's.

"It's your housekeeper," she continued, stressing the end of the sentence. "May I have a word?"

Pale eyes widened as they stared into John's. A whisper, a mere breath of air between Sherlock's lips: "Something's wrong. Badly wrong."

The consulting detective's body seemed to forget its past injuries as he propelled Sofie toward John with grim speed.

"Hide her," Sherlock muttered, his expression closing like a fist. "Hide her _now_."

Then, much louder, "Good morning, Mrs Hudson! I'll be with you in just a moment. Allow me to finish getting dressed."

Oh, God, John thought. Oh, God.

Weeks – months – of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Moriarty to make his next move, and now…

He turned in place, looking everywhere at once. He scrubbed a hand across his scalp and down his face. He forced one deep breath, then another.

John dropped to one knee, extending his arm for Sofie. She closed the short distance between them at once, her eyes searching his for any clue about how to understand what was happening, how to react to the sudden confusion.

He felt the responsibility of her trust settle on him like the dead weight of a wounded man draped across his shoulders.

"Sofie," he said, hushed but clear and very, very steady, "remember that time I called you my soldier? Well, I need you to be my soldier now."

***

John was aware of each second as it passed, as clearly as if a time bomb hung around his neck, ticking down to the moment of detonation.

He reached for the box at the far end of the table, the one that held Sherlock's extra slides, test tubes, and beakers. Turning it on its side, he eased the glass and plastic pieces onto the table, mindful of the noise they made.

Then he turned to the cupboard under the sink. With swift, economical movements he swept the clutter of half-used cleaning supplies and half-forgotten household goods into the box. Once the unit was empty, he replaced the box on the table, hoping its jumbled contents would blend in with the rest of Sherlock's mess.

"Not scared of tight spaces, are you?" he asked Sofie in a whisper, readying his assurances that she'd be just like Harry Potter under the stairs at Privet Drive.

Sofie, however, already was climbing under the sink gamely, backpack and all, as she shook her head.

Right. Of course not.

Sherlock called out again to Mrs Hudson, buying them time. John couldn't spare the attention to listen to his words.

As Sofie settled into the cramped quarters, John kneeled and leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose.

"Listen carefully, Sofie. This is very important."

"It's an emergency," she said, a question as well as a statement.

He folded his hand over hers where it curled around her knee.

"That's right. It is." John's mind raced. He had to make every word count. "You need to stay quiet, and you need to stay here. No matter who or what you hear, you stay in this cupboard. All right?"

"All right."

"When it's time to come out, we'll knock on this door and identify ourselves, to let you know it's safe. Wait until that happens, as long as it takes."

"John!" Sherlock's hushed voice, urgent. "Hurry…"

"Don't be afraid, whatever you hear," John continued. "We may have to pretend, to trick the bad guys." Anything to spare her anguish, should things get ugly. "But if you come out before we're ready, it could put all our lives in danger. Understand? You'll help us best by staying hidden. Promise you will, Sofie."

Her hand turned to clutch his, an almost frantic pressure. "Promise."

Then, in a voice that sounded faint and timid and very un-Sofie-like, she asked, "John? What if someone opens the door without knocking first?"

Good question.

The thought of leaving Sofie defenceless was inconceivable.

" _John_ …" Sherlock again.

Please, John thought. Please, let this be the right thing to do.

Stretching upward, he groped inside a nearby drawer until he felt one, then two familiar handles.

"Be quiet and still, and no one should know you're here," he told her in a rush. "But if someone does open this door without warning" – he pressed a knife into her hand – "you stab, as hard as you can, and then you run. Run fast. Do whatever it takes to get away. Understood, soldier?"

Her features went slack in surprise as he spoke, but then twisted into a mirror of her father's stubborn frown. Clutching the knife to her chest, she gave John a short, determined nod. "Understood."

The right thing to do, after all.

"Brave girl." He smoothed his hand over her hair and withdrew from the cupboard.

As he closed its door, shutting her away in darkness, he heard a soft, "'Bye, John."

Setting his jaw, he climbed stiffly to his feet. Even as he turned, nodding his readiness to Sherlock, he tucked the second knife, handle first, into the back of his jeans.

***

"I'm so sorry, my boys," Mrs Hudson said. Tears welled in her eyes.

The young man directly behind her had a tight grip around her upper arm and a blade pressed to her throat. Two additional men stood at his side.

"It's not your fault, Mrs Hudson," John said, keeping his voice as quiet and soothing as possible as he came to stand beside Sherlock. "Are you hurt?"

"No, dear." She offered a sheepish half-smile. "Just a bit rattled. I thought they were – well, doesn't matter, does it? Not who they turned out to be."

"Let. Her. Go." Sherlock's voice was the deep, low rumble of approaching thunder.

The young man withdrew his knife and gave Mrs Hudson a forceful shove.

Before she could stumble, Sherlock and John each caught her by an arm. As they steadied her, the three newcomers shouldered their way into the flat and closed the door.

John gathered Mrs Hudson close, shifting to place his body between hers and the three men.

They were dressed in nondescript shirts, trousers, and jackets, as if they'd taken pains to avoid drawing attention to themselves. The one who had threatened Mrs Hudson possessed unnaturally blond hair; he and the younger of his companions, a round-faced, stocky youth with a prominent mole on his cheek, looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Both held knives.

The older man was closer to sixty than fifty, John guessed. He carried a Beretta – a 92FS Centurion, from the looks of it – with the easy familiarity of someone long comfortable with its use. A professional then, or a former pro. And two amateurs: one keen, one an unknown quantity.

Sherlock angled himself forward, drawing attention away from John and Mrs Hudson, straightening into an arrogant stance that betrayed no hint of his recent wounds.

"I confess I'm disappointed," he complained to the would-be attackers. "This is hardly up to Jim's usual standards."

"Jim? Jim who?" the blond asked. "And who's this skinny shite?"

"Don't know," the older man said. He pointed his gun like a finger, first at Sherlock and then at John. "Not him. Not him," he said. "So where is he? Thought you saw him here, Tommy."

"I did." This from the youth with the mole. "Him and some little girl. His car's still out there."

John experienced the stomach-heaving sensation of a sudden drop on a particularly vicious rollercoaster.

Oh, God. Not Moriarty. This wasn't about Sherlock at all.

What should have been relief felt far more like horror.

"If you're referring to that policeman," Sherlock said, without missing a beat, "he already left. Wrong street. Escorting a lost child home, and he couldn't be bothered to take down the directions properly." He shook his head with feigned disgust. "Nothing but incompetence at the Met these days."

The two younger men exchanged looks. The gunman just grinned, showing teeth.

"I think," he said, "that's a load of bollocks."

Shrugging, Sherlock managed to sound bored. "I can't help what you think. Obviously."

"Secure them first, lads. Then search the flat."

Alert for any opportunity, John held himself ready, and he sensed Sherlock doing the same. If the two of them had been alone, they might have made an immediate move against their captors. But John soon realized that they dared not act. Not yet.

Not when they distrusted the speed and strength of their still-healing bodies. Not with Mrs Hudson in the direct line of fire.

Chafing at his helplessness, he offered no protest as his pockets were searched and his hands secured behind him with a plastic zip tie. The men assembled a row of chairs at the kitchen end of the sitting room, and John did as instructed, taking his place beside Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.

Some ninja you are, he berated himself.

When he pressed his weight into the chair, however, he felt the knife blade bite at the skin of his lower back, a bright line of reassuring pain.

"Go on now; see if he's hiding somewhere," the gunman said, thumbing through the menu of John's mobile. "I'll look for – no. No, wait."

He gave a short, harsh bark of a laugh.

"Here it is, spelled out in black and white: Lestrade." With a jerk of his chin, the man indicated his prisoners. "Keep them quiet. Let's see if he'll take my call."

***

This time Mrs Hudson was ready for the knife at her throat. She met it with a scathing glare of outrage.

"Your mum," she whispered, "must be _so proud_ of you."

"Shut it!" the blond spat.

The gunman put the mobile in speaker mode, and the room went silent, save for the sound of ringing.

"Yeah? Everything all right?" A car horn. Distant voices. Footsteps on pavement. Lestrade was walking back from the bakery.

"Hello, Geoffrey. I s'pose that's not your real name, though, is it? Too bad: it suited you. Been a long time."

Quiet, save for a quick intake of breath. No more footsteps. Lestrade had stopped in his tracks. Then, "Eddie."

"Ah, you do remember me. I'm touched."

Lestrade's gravelly voice deepened around tightly controlled syllables. "How did you come by that phone?"

"Thought I'd throw a surprise party. Rude of you, not to be here. Decided I'd keep your mates company."

A moment's pause. "Let me speak to them."

The gunman sighed. "Haven't got all day, do I?"

"You know I need proof they're alive and well."

"One. You can speak to one of them."

Another pause. "Dr Watson, then."

"That's me," John murmured, lifting his chin.

Eddie moved to stand in front of him. "Fine. Go ahead." He held out the mobile.

"Dr Watson, this is DI Lestrade." John nodded to himself, appreciating both Lestrade's show of formality and the reasons behind it. "What's your status? Are any of you injured? Do you require medical assistance?"

Choosing his words with care, John willed Lestrade to understand. "They have all three of us: Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, and me. We've been restrained, but we're unhurt."

He fancied that he could hear Lestrade thinking through the implications of his words, turning the "all three of us" over in his mind, searching for where this left Sofie.

Then, crisp and grim, Lestrade said, "I'm sorry about this. I'll put things right."

Eddie drew back the phone. "If you intend to 'put things right,' let's do it like men: face to face. On your way now, are you?"

No hesitation. "Yeah, I am. Alone and unarmed. Be there in minutes."

John cursed silently to himself in seven different languages, a skill he had acquired in the sands of Afghanistan.

"But I've got a request, Eddie. Call it a gesture of goodwill," Lestrade said. "I'll come to the front door. You send down Mrs Hudson. She leaves; I enter. An even trade."

Oh, John thought, struck by that bit of quick thinking. Well done.

"Doesn't matter if she can ID you," Lestrade continued. "The Met already knows you're in play again, Eddie. It won't take long for them to put two and two together, once I disappear. Then again, this isn't about lying low for you at all, is it?

"Send her down, if you want me."

"Always the chivalrous one, eh? Some things never change." Eddie considered his hostage. "Yeah, fine. Ring when you're at the door. No surprises now, there's a good lad."

He ended the call before Lestrade could reply.

***

"Thank you, dear," Mrs Hudson said simply, gazing down the stairs at the detective inspector silhouetted in the front doorway.

Nodding, Lestrade looked past her to the blond young man on the landing, keeping watch over them both.

She didn't have to feign the stiffness in her joints, but she pressed a hand to her bad hip for added emphasis. Her descent was haltingly slow.

As she neared the very bottom of the staircase, she raised her eyes to Lestrade's. With a faint frown of concern, he moved forward, an arm outstretched to assist her if needed.

Yes. Good.

She drew a quick breath, gathered her nerve, and took a deliberate step into thin air.

Of course he caught her, his arms strong and secure around her shoulders and back. She pressed her face into his neck – and didn't he smell good? lovely man – as she whispered, "Three men. Two knives. One gun."

As he settled her back on her feet, he squeezed her hands in wordless gratitude.

***

Lestrade's pale face was startling for its utter lack of expression. If Sherlock's silent, intense efforts at observation hadn't already impressed it on him, John would have known from Lestrade's deliberately impassive features just how very dangerous this situation was.

The detective inspector held himself still and allowed the blond to frisk him for weapons and wires.

"All right?" Lestrade asked Sherlock and John, searching their faces. They both nodded.

John wished he could do something, anything, to answer Lestrade's unspoken question about his daughter, to spare the man the strain of not knowing, at least.

"The years have been kind to you," Eddie said. "You kept your good looks. Though you're a bit frayed at the edges, I must say. Don't you sleep well?"

"Do you?" Like Eddie, Lestrade kept his tone calm and casual. They might almost have been two friends on a park bench discussing the weather.

"I expect I'll sleep better tonight." A wry twist of Eddie's lips. "When I saw your picture in the papers, I knew you immediately, grey hair and all. But only a DI, at your age? After all your conspicuous acts of heroism?"

"You know how it is. I get up the nose of some of the higher-ups."

"Imagine that." Eddie's cold smile failed to reach his eyes.

"Look, if you want a reunion, you've got it," Lestrade said steadily, with a nod toward Sherlock and John. "These men have nothing to do with the business between us."

"Who are they, that they matter to you?" Eddie prodded.

"They're civilians. And I'm a police officer, sworn to protect them." The fine lines around Lestrade's eyes and mouth appeared to sharpen all of a sudden. "Thought you'd learned that lesson, Eddie."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" Eddie shook his head, as if they'd shared a private joke that wasn't particularly humorous. "Thing is, I also learned you fight when your back's against the wall. You fight hard. And I don't have time for that just now. These two blokes are insurance, to make sure you take your medicine without a fuss."

No, John thought. This won't happen. We can't let this happen.

Lestrade didn't blink. "And if I do?"

"Even you," Sherlock said, so unexpectedly that everyone in the room started, "can't be so stu—"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said. His gaze didn't leave Eddie's face. "Shut up. Please."

To John's astonishment, Sherlock obeyed.

"I assume," Lestrade began again, "you walked in here knowing exactly what you wanted out of this little" – he seemed to search for a fitting word – "drama."

"I did," Eddie agreed. "A photo of you, lying in a puddle of your own blood and puke and piss, as dead as a doornail." He waved at the patch of rug in front of the sofa. "Right about there, but not I'm overly particular."

"A photo" – Lestrade showed no surprise – "to send to the Carletons."

If only one of those two young thugs turned away, John knew he could get to his knife in mere seconds. His fingers itched for it. As it was, he couldn't blink without being observed. Tension coiled and tightened about the room like a noose, and John could scarcely draw a breath.

Eddie nodded. "You ended my career with them, right enough, Mr Undercover Copper. Had to flee the bleeding country to save my hide. Now my boy, my son Seth, he wants a shot at the family business, at restoring our name. You're his ticket in. I make things right, and I reckon he gets a chance."

Spreading both hands in a helpless gesture, Eddie continued to cover Lestrade with the semiautomatic. "So here I am. No limit to what a parent will do for a child."

Lestrade swallowed. "Yeah."

Eddie, John thought, you have no idea. No idea at all.

***

CONTINUED/CONCLUDED IN CHAPTER 2 of 2


	2. Chapter 2 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hostage situation at 221B Baker Street proves that not all dangers come from Moriarty.

For several heartbeats, no one spoke.

John ordered his thoughts. The young man with the mole, Tommy, was the least concern; he held his knife like he was half-afraid of the thing. Leave him 'til last, then, or to Sherlock, if John could manage to free him. Eddie and his gun posed the greatest threat, with the blond a close second.

If John had the chance to move, he would have to take it without hesitation – and, quite likely, without concern for mercy. He'd always rather subdue than kill, but only dead men posed no certain threat, and the stakes were too high for half measures this morning.

These men's plans for Lestrade left no room for mercy, after all.

"You were on the wrong side, but you always had a sense of honour, Eddie, I'll give you that." Lestrade licked his lips. "I need your word, your oath, that these men go free if I cooperate."

"Lestrade—" John couldn't help himself.

"I am trying," Lestrade said, very softly and very slowly, "to limit the number of corpses in this flat at the end of the day. For God's sake, _let me do my job_." For a moment he shut his eyes, and John noted the telltale twitch as Lestrade's fingers flexed open, only to close around nothingness.

None of the rules applied, did they? The conventional wisdom about hostage crises dictated buying time, keeping the leader talking. But with Sofie hiding, so very vulnerable – hell, with Lestrade completely ignorant of where she was, what had happened to her – the only course of action, in Lestrade's eyes at least, seemed to be for him to take it on the chin, to play out the scene as swiftly as possible so the bastards would leave.

To offer himself up for all of them.

John's muscles cramped at the sheer injustice of it.

His eyes roamed the room. Bloody hell, he thought, could that clock be correct? Had it truly been less than twenty-five minutes since Lestrade and Sofie had first arrived at 221B?

How soon before they could expect help? Mrs Hudson had invited the men in without a fuss, so the police and security teams who routinely observed the flat had no reason to be concerned. The footage of the men from the CCTV cameras would raise no red flags for Mycroft's people, because the facial recognition software would fail to yield any matches with Moriarty's known contacts. And even if, as John sometimes suspected, Mycroft had bugged the flat itself, there had to be some kind of delay between the recordings and their analysis.

Mrs Hudson had been gone only a handful of minutes, certainly not long enough to have the cavalry here in full force in the immediate future.

They were, for all practical purposes, alone.

"They stay for now," Eddie told Lestrade. "When you and I are done here, assuming you've behaved, I'll leave them alive and untouched. My word on it."

Fixing his eyes on a bare patch of wall, Lestrade nodded.

John shifted, gathering himself, only to feel Tommy's hand settle on his shoulder in warning.

"Over there and on your knees then, lad," Eddie ordered Lestrade. "Take your shirt and vest off first, and then put your hands behind your back."

It was an agony, witnessing the surrender of a man whose every instinct was to fight.

"This needs to look good. Not a quick bullet to the head," Eddie said, and John wondered if he imagined it, a hint of grudging regret in the words. "Can't make it too easy on you, can I? After what you cost me?"

"S'pose not," Lestrade said, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. He was distancing himself, John could see, detaching from what was about to happen. John had observed such behaviour in fellow soldiers in Afghanistan – particularly with the Special Forces, as teams prepared for missions from which return seemed unlikely.

"I'd like to think that this will hit your people hard," Eddie said conversationally. Any brief spark of regret, if it had ever existed at all, was now frozen beneath a layer of impenetrable ice. "The way your sting hit mine."

John gritted his teeth. All the more reason to make certain Eddie never knew about or gained access to the little girl under the sink.

"Hate to disappoint you," Lestrade said, "but there's no one at home for me."

Technically speaking, this was true, John knew. Sofie lived with her grandmother, didn't she?

"You're wearing a ring," Eddie pointed out.

"My wife died years ago. If you insist on hurrying along our reunion, well… to be honest, I can't say that I object entirely. Considered it myself, once or twice over the years."

Lestrade draped his shirt and vest over the arm of the sofa.

"What few friends I have will likely feel relief as much as sadness – bit of a safety hazard, you know, being mates with a man who perpetually wears a target on his back. As for the Yard, before my body's cold they'll have me replaced by someone younger and faster and smarter. Someone with the sense to do things by the book.

"My closest colleagues might miss me, but they'll also get promotions out of the deal – silver linings and all that."

These matter-of-fact observations came too easily to Lestrade, John thought, to represent fiction composed on the spot. John twisted his hands in his bonds, simply for the welcome distraction of the pain at his wrists.

"If you're looking to make all London weep," Lestrade continued, "I'm not your target. But that's not the point, is it?"

"No. No, it's not."

Naked to the waist, Lestrade went down on his knees, training his eyes once again on the wall.

"Tie him up," Eddie commanded.

The blond slipped his weapon into his belt, withdrew a zip tie from his jacket, and went to secure the detective inspector's hands. Tommy drifted a step closer to watch. Then another.

John hitched up his shirttail and groped for the knife.

"It's a shame to hear it, though,” Eddie mused. “You had such a promising start. How old were you when you first infiltrated my circle? Just a pup."

"Twenty-seven." Lestrade sounded distant, disinterested, as if he spoke from half a world away.

"Blimey, you're nearly fifty," Eddie said. "You should be running Scotland Yard by now."

Without warning, Sherlock spoke: "While I am disinclined to agree with a criminal who is preparing to commit homicide in the middle of my sitting room, I must say, Lestrade, you _do_ deserve better. But not only in the way our captor assumes."

John froze in shock, knife secure in fettered hands, as all eyes turned toward the consulting detective at his side. All eyes but Lestrade's.

"As a nemesis, this man is utterly incompetent," Sherlock complained to his audience. "His planned actions will not result in his desired outcomes – thus leaving him a failure, Lestrade dead, and me out a rather expensive rug."

"Sherlock—" John breathed.

"I'm sorry: leaving _John and me_ out a rather expensive rug. Mrs Hudson will make us pay for it, you know. But John's practically penniless, so I expect it's on me."

"What," Eddie blurted, "the fuck?"

My sentiments exactly, John thought.

Drawing a breath, Sherlock began to hold forth: "As I understand it, Eddie was badly disgraced twenty years ago when the Carletons learned that his right-hand man, known then as 'Geoffrey Lewis,' was, in fact, an undercover police officer – the same officer who helped to engineer the sting that brought down a substantial portion of their operation. Whether Eddie had been duped by or was in league with this policeman was immaterial to the Carletons.

"Now Eddie believes he can prove his loyalty and buy a future for his son with the syndicate by killing said officer, who is now known to be DI Greg Lestrade."

The blond wrenched Lestrade's arms behind him and secured them with the tie. When the young man straightened, he stared at Sherlock, hands curling into fists at his side.

"Your plan," Sherlock continued, now speaking directly to Eddie, "will do nothing of the sort. For one thing, the death of one of Scotland Yard's own will concentrate police attention on the Carletons, putting their so-called business in the greatest jeopardy it's faced since that very sting two decades ago. Why do you think they never went after him themselves?"

Eddie grew several shades paler. Lestrade continued to stare at the wall in front of him.

"For another," Sherlock said, "your choices ultimately _disprove_ your loyalty. You came here today without an exit strategy for yourself or" – Sherlock looked to each of the two younger men –"your nephew and godson, neither of whom currently has a serious criminal record. Somehow I doubt they planned to throw their lives away for your son Seth, but that's exactly what you've betrayed them into doing.

"At worst, they'll be killed; at best, they'll be caught, implicated in the premeditated murder of one of London's finest, and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. They will most certainly not, as I assume they hoped, secure the lasting appreciation and patronage of the Carleton syndicate."

An inarticulate sound of protest came from Tommy, who glanced back and forth between his captive and his mentor, as if attempting to follow an especially energetic tennis match.

"The syndicate fancies itself an extended family,” Sherlock explained. “You, Eddie, have proved willing to trade two family members for the sake of another. Seth, conspicuous by his absence, has proved willing to let you do so. Those aren't the values that inspire confidence in people like the Carletons. If any of you do survive today, I doubt the syndicate will allow you to live for—"

With several long strides, the blond crossed the space to Sherlock and backhanded him. Sherlock rocked with the blow, huffing, barely keeping his seat.

"Shut your face," the young man growled.

John worked the knife, slashing both his fingers and his shirt before gaining purchase against the plastic restraint.

"Uncle Ed?" Tommy's voice was a suspicious whine. "What did he mean? What's he saying?"

"Don't listen to 'im," the blond said, when a visibly troubled Eddie failed to answer. "He's tryin' to get under your skin.

"And you," the young man continued, pointing his knife at Sherlock. "Next time I use this instead of my fist."

"Sherlock." Lestrade kept his eyes in front of him. "Thanks for trying. Really. But it's not worth it. Other things are more important."

Like Sofie, John supplied, hearing the implied message. Like you.

Lestrade took a measured breath. "Let it go."

"Uncle Ed, I don't—" Tommy protested.

"Good God." Eddie sighed raggedly, as the full implications of Sherlock's words appeared to hit him all at once. "A man can't catch a break, can he?"

Lestrade glanced up at him. " _You're_ asking _me_?"

For a wholly incongruous and surreal moment, the two shared a bleak and wintry smile.

John seized the distraction as his opportunity to reach behind Sherlock and fold the knife into his flatmate's fingers.

Sherlock gave a slight nod of thanks, sending blood from his nose and lip dripping down his cheek.

Odd, John thought, that Sherlock's attention seemed to have wandered from such a tense scene. He appeared to be staring at the window.

“Wait, I don’t—”

“Quiet, Tommy,” the blond growled.

"I've come this far," Eddie said after a pause. "That counts for something. It has to." His hand shot out, twining into Lestrade's short and silvering hair. "Last words?"

Lestrade's tongue darted out, moistening his lips. He blinked. "Sherlock, John: thank you. For everything. You both know what to say, and who to say it to."

"That's all?" Eddie asked.

A tight nod. "Just get on with it."

"All right, then." Eddie brought the Beretta down in a wide-swinging arc, striking Lestrade above the ear, and then he caught the slumping man in the chest with a powerful kick.

"Tommy, think," Sherlock was saying, urgent and low, half-rising from his chair. "Whatever you decide to do this minute…"

One of us has to live through this, John told himself. We can't allow Sofie to climb out of that cupboard to find all of us dead.

Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, John was on his feet and moving, as fast as his limping speed could take him – unarmed, directly toward a man with a gun and a man with a knife.

The young blond aimed a savage kick of his own at Lestrade's unprotected ribs. The sound of the impact of unyielding boot against fragile flesh and bone, of Lestrade's choked pain, propelled John forward.

He was a pair of strong, well-trained hands clenched around a blond-haired skull. He was the twist and crunch and give of a cleanly-broken neck. Taking up the dead man's knife even before his body hit the floor, John became a leap and thrust and gush of bright red blood at Eddie's throat.

Everything else – the door, the windows, the shouts, the urgent rush of newcomers – was confusion.

***

"Easy. You're safe. Sofie's safe. Don't move. Easy. Let me get your hands free." Even, ordered words echoed in John's head, and after a moment he recognized them as his own.

Under John's capable fingers, Lestrade ceased his struggling and managed a shallow breath. Then another.

The gore-slicked knife sliced through the zip tie cleanly, and John eased Lestrade's arm toward his battered chest.

For some minutes, nothing else mattered to John but his patient. Not the blond corpse on the rug beside him. Not Sergeant Donovan, looking furious as a blood-drunk Valkyrie, kneeling beside a dying Eddie as if she hoped to hasten his final few steps toward the afterlife. Not even Sherlock, his cheek streaked with crimson, looming over a bound and half-weeping Tommy, Mycroft standing tall and ashen at his elbow.

John helped to turn Lestrade, shifting his bare torso ever so gently, and braced him as the man retched up a mouthful of bile and blood. "Concussion. Possible skull fracture. Broken ribs. Possible compromised lung due to displaced rib fractures," John recited, litany-like, to the gathering circle of paramedics.

"Please." Lestrade wheezed his plea. "Don't let her" – a harsh breath, positively _grating_ – "see all this."

"No," John agreed, wiping blood from Lestrade's brow before it could drip into the man's eyes. "She won't. It'll be fine. We'll take care of her."

"Thank you, Doctor. We can handle it from here." John nodded and sank back on the rug to let the professionals do their jobs. He blinked, momentarily dazed at the number of people in his sitting room. Quite a few of them seemed to be wearing stab vests from the Yard. And were those half-dozen men there with Mycroft paramilitary troops?

He felt absurdly blessed to be part of the focus of such ridiculous overkill.

There was something he needed to remember. Something very important indeed.

Then, "Sherlock!"

How did the consulting detective arrive at his side so quickly, swifter than a thought, while still so unsteady on his feet? John wanted to reach up a hand for assistance, but he feared toppling Sherlock over instead.

"Sofie. Knock on the cupboard. Under the sink. Tell her who you are, before you open the door. She's armed."

Sherlock nodded.

"And Sherlock: she can't see any of this."

"Of course." Then he was gone.

By the time John was standing again – someone tried to wrap a blanket around his shoulders, and he nearly gave in to a fit of the giggles; couldn't they see his hands were perfectly steady? – Sherlock was heading toward the kitchen, his coat tucked under one arm, John's cane hooked over the other.

John threaded through the crowd to follow him.

Mycroft's personal assistant leaned against the threshold to the kitchen, typing furiously on her Blackberry. She didn't look up as she said, "Be sure to knock on the cupboard door and identify yourself first, or you'll get skewered. She means business."

Sherlock paused, John just behind him.

"You know about Sofie?" Sherlock asked.

The young woman glanced up at that. "Who do you think organized this entire operation?"

The flatmates stared at her.

"She's been texting Mr Holmes and Detective Sergeant Donovan ever since the moment she was alone under the sink. Mrs Hudson's been very helpful with eyewitness information these last few minutes, but the joint forces were already mobilised and en route before she was ever released."

"How much did Sofie hear?" John had to force out the words.

"Enough," she said. "Enough to be scared for her father and for the two of you. But not enough to lose her wits – and, believe me, she has plenty."

"Freak!" came a call, and they turned to find Donovan approaching, mobile in hand. "Make this any more difficult than it has to be for that little girl, and I'll see to it you're a permanent high tenor."

For once, Sherlock did not rise to the bait.

Seconds later he was kneeling before the cupboard door with John.

He rapped on the door. "Sofie? It's Sherlock. John's here with me. May we open the door now?"

"Please, Sherlock!"

Curled into a knot, one hand clutching the knife and the other her mobile, Sofie squinted against the light. Dried tear tracks showed on her cheeks.

"Daddy?" she asked.

"He was wounded, but he's going to be just fine," John said quickly. "The paramedics are tending to him now."

"I want to see him," she said.

"Soon," Sherlock agreed, as John helped her to swing her cramped legs out onto the floor.

"Oh, your face," she said to Sherlock. "Wait." Handing Sherlock the knife, Sofie shrugged out of her backpack. She tucked her phone into its depths and pulled out a small packet of pre-moistened antibacterial hand wipes, as precise as any member of the forensics team at a crime scene.

Sherlock inclined his head without a word and allowed the child to wipe the blood from his nose and cheek and chin.

"Oh, John, you're even worse!"

"No, no, the blood's not mine," he said, wincing at the mess on his shirt.

"But your _hand_." Clearly uncertain how best to help his hurts, she offered him a second wipe, which he accepted with thanks and wrapped around the shallow knife lacerations on his fingers.

"Sofie," Sherlock said, "We need to get you out of here, so we can follow your father to hospital. It's best if you don't see the sitting room, so we'll carry you out."

"Why? What can't I see?" She bit her lip.

"There are two dead bodies on the fl—"

"Sherlock," John said.

"Bad guys?" she asked.

"Bad guys," John agreed.

"John was quite the proper ninja." Sherlock leaned in, as if to share a delightful secret, and whispered, "You should have seen him. Unarmed, he snapped one's neck, and then he stabbed—"

" _Sherlock_! Not good. More than a bit. Inappropriate in the extreme, in fact."

"I knew it." Sofie's faith shone in her eyes. "I knew it, John. Thanks. For helping Daddy."

"Anytime," John said, humbled. "And thank you, for texting the good guys."

"It was an emergency, so I'm allowed," she explained. "That's what my mobile's for."

"Right you are," John said.

He became aware of a great deal of movement behind them, and he turned to see the paramedics rising to their feet, preparing to bear Lestrade on a stretcher between them.

Recalling the words Lestrade had spoken about what his death would (or, more to the point, wouldn't) mean to those around him, John was seized by the sudden conviction that the man should have a friend at his side, now of all times, while he was wounded and in pain.

"Sherlock…"

"Go on. You're the medical doctor. It's fitting that you're with him. I've got Sofie. We'll follow and meet you there."

With a squeeze to Sherlock's shoulder, John went to Lestrade.

***

Mycroft, bless his near-omniscience, already had anticipated John's desire to ride in the ambulance and made the necessary arrangements.

As John waited for the paramedics to load Lestrade and secure him inside the vehicle, he leaned against its reassuring bulk and treated himself to a few deep breaths of air. The adrenaline crash, when it came, would be dizzying, but for now John Watson felt far, far better than anyone who had become a hostage in his own home, witnessed his friend's almost-murder, and turned two captors into corpses had the right to feel.

The panda cars, the police tape, and the milling personnel all felt like peace, somehow, despite the fact they represented its opposite.

And then the front door opened, and Sally Donovan held it wide, waiting. She wore a singularly baffled-appalled-moved expression on her face, as if she'd just seen an angel, or met the historical Jack the Ripper, or spotted the Loch Ness Monster and the Eye of Sauron doing shots at the pub with the Queen.

Through the open door hobbled Sherlock Holmes.

John knew all too well that Sherlock had not once made it down the stairs without assistance since the explosion.

He was half-bent like a withered crone from a child's fairytale, steadying his balance with the cane designed for John's slighter height. His cheeks were colourless save for a burgeoning bruise, his lips a tight line, his face slick with sweat from exertion.

His coat hung over his right shoulder and chest – and, John realized, Sofie Lestrade, tucked tightly against Sherlock's side, carried in his slender arm. All that was visible of the child beneath Sherlock's coat – his cape, John corrected himself, thinking of Sofie's description of the man – was her hands.

One curled around the back of his neck. The other rested against his chest, above his heart, thumb and index finger extended in her best approximation of a _Star Wars_ blaster gun.

Sherlock elbowed aside several offers of assistance as he made his way toward Mycroft's black sedan. Of course, the physician in John fretted at the strain the consulting detective had placed on himself, but any fool could see that this was something Sherlock had chosen to do – had needed to do – on his own.

Despite his obvious frailty and struggle, or perhaps because of it, Sherlock was the very portrait of fierce dignity.

Was it any wonder that John would follow this man anywhere?

As Sherlock approached the car, security team members seemed to materialise out of thin air, clearing his path and opening the door for him. Before he climbed in with his burden, his eyes searched the scene and found John's.

They nodded to one another. A shared moment of communion.

A heartbeat later, a paramedic called out that Lestrade was secure and the ambulance was ready to depart. John scrambled in and assumed the place they had made for him at Lestrade's side.

The detective inspector was in no condition for conversation, panting shallow breaths behind his oxygen mask, eyes wide and slightly unfocussed. Fortunately he did not seem to be in any immediate respiratory distress. John groaned to himself in sympathy anyway, knowing that each breath with those ribs had to be torture, and that Lestrade could receive little for the pain until his head wound was thoroughly examined.

When John put himself in the man's direct line of sight, Lestrade blinked in obvious recognition.

"Sofie's right behind us, riding with Mycroft and Sherlock," John said. "Sally's securing the scene. Everything's fine."

Lestrade attempted to nod, went still with a groan as his head protested, and then tried to smile instead.

"Jesus," he huffed.

"Yeah," John agreed.

Nothing else needed to be said.

***

The waiting room deserved a revolving door.

In the course of an hour and a half, they saw Mycroft, his personal assistant, Mrs Hudson, and three police officers and two members of Mycroft's staff whose names John never learned. Somehow, through fleeting snatches of conversations and reports, John patched together enough details to understand that he owed Mycroft Holmes his life.

Apparently two separate snipers had secured Eddie in their sights as he opened his attack on Lestrade. At the last possible moment, Mycroft had instructed them to hold their fire, a decision that nearly – and, John reasoned, quite understandably – sent Donovan into an apoplectic fit.

Before Mycroft could explain that he anticipated an imminent Watsonian rescue attempt, John had taken Eddie down. John's desperate lunge, of course, had put him directly in the snipers' line of fire.

Well, John thought. Huh.

He filed away that information for some future time when it would fascinate him more and freak him out less.

The last to arrive was a somber Sergeant Donovan, carefully balancing four lidded and logo-bearing cups. She made her way to Sofie, went to one knee, and set the drinks on the floor before her.

"I come bearing cocoa," she announced with solemnity, and offered a cup to the little girl.

"Thanks, Sally," Sofie smiled. Her red-rimmed eyes glowed with pleasure.

"Anything for a hero," Sally answered. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay."

"'Course you are." Extending a second cup toward John, Sally said, "Tea."

"Oh. Yes. Um, thanks." Just the way he liked it, too.

"Sherlock," she said.

With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock replied, "Sally."

"I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered the darkest, bitterest, most pointlessly pretentious thing on the coffee menu. Seemed fitting."

She held out the cup, and he accepted it. He took a sip that could only be called _dainty_. And then he smacked his lips.

"Sergeant Donovan, with accurate deductions such as this, you may one day earn that title of detective that you wear."

She stared at him. "Right."

Like an afterthought, she said, "Your flat will be a right mess for a while – not that you'd notice the difference. And your sitting room rug is a lost cause."

Sherlock snorted.

John couldn't shake the notion that some kind of détente had been reached. He filed away that information, as well.

***

The ribs would mend.

None of the tests or scans revealed complications from the concussion, although the doctors wanted to keep the detective inspector for observation a while longer. It seemed highly probable, however, that Lestrade had escaped the Beretta with only temporary side effects: blurred vision, sensitivity to sound, and one hell of a headache.

"Hey, Sweetheart," he croaked, as John helped Sofie onto the bed, careful not to jostle the man too much.

"I was scared," she confessed, with quivering lips.

"So was I," he admitted. "But you kept your wits and carried on. I'm so very proud of you, my brave girl."

With a sniffled, "Poor Daddy," Sofie buried her head on his shoulder for a brief, explosive, and cathartic cry. Lestrade stroked her head and slurred reassurances that he would be fine. When the storm had passed, and more than one adult had wiped eyes as discreetly as possible, Sofie sat up again, announcing, "I feel better now. And I really need the loo."

Sally confirmed that it wasn't beneath her professional dignity to serve as an honour escort.

Sofie paused on her way out the door to hold up her phone and say, "Gran texted. She'll be here in ten minutes!"

Once Sofie and Sally were gone, Lestrade muttered, "Whoever said that your flat was the safest place in London is an _idiot_."

John snickered.

"It will be safer, after this," Sherlock said. "Mycroft is already generating a new set of protocols—"

"—yeah, and the Yard will respond, as well," Lestrade said. "God, the paperwork."

They lapsed into their own thoughts for several moments.

Sherlock broke the silence with an abrupt announcement: "I loathe hospitals. Thought I'd never be released this last time. And where do I go for my first proper outing from the flat? To hospital. _Dull_."

He was looking distinctly worn, John had to admit.

"Go on, then, Sherlock." Lestrade made a shooing motion, and then blinked and squinted at the consulting detective. "All… ah, _three_ of you. When she gets back, Sally can drive you home. She can take your statements there, as well."

John sighed. "For a moment I'd forgotten our home is also a crime scene."

Like a child on Christmas morning, Sherlock began to glow. "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

"But there's no mystery to solve," John pointed out. "You already know what happened. You were there."

"True. Still. There's the _ambience_." After some thought, Sherlock added, "And my experiment is still in progress. It requires attention. You must clean up the mess you left on the table, John."

John shook his head, hiding his eyes in his hand. He glanced up to find Lestrade regarding him with a knowing and rueful look.

"Do you need anything? Does Sofie?" John asked.

"We're good. If Julia's coming, she'll take care of Sofie."

"We'll check with you later, see how you're doing."

A grin. "Thanks, Doctor." After a beat, more soberly, "For everything. Both of you."

"One question, Lestrade," Sherlock said, rising none too steadily and draping his coat over his arm. "Whatever happened to the chocolate éclairs?"

" _That_ is your question? Seriously?" John asked. "All that's happened today, and you're thinking about the éclairs?"

"I never got mine. I wanted it."

"I stopped and ate them on the way, once I knew you were tied up," Lestrade said. "Sure, your life was in immediate peril, but they were bloody good éclairs. Couldn't let them go to waste, you understand."

Folding his arms over his chest, Sherlock waited.

"Made a spontaneous donation to members of your Homeless Network, didn't I? The ally of my ally is my ally, too, right?"

Sherlock straightened a bit, clearly pleased.

"And we need all the allies we can get," John nodded in approval. "Although it seems we can mark one threat, at least, off our list today."

"Not your list, mate," Lestrade noted.

" _Our_ list," John repeated.

"The biggest name remains, and there will be more to add, I'm sure," Sherlock said. "But in the meantime, there's éclairs on the way home."

"Sherlock. Priorities." John indicated his own torso. "Besides, something about being splattered in dried blood puts me right off pastries."

Sherlock smirked. "No, it doesn't."

"Fine. _Fine_." John knew when he was defeated. "No, it doesn't."

As they retreated, John paused at the door and lifted his hand, gratified to see a weary but genuine smile on Lestrade's face. "We'll find Sofie and say goodbye. Ring you later. And Lestrade—"

"I know. I'll be careful. You, too."

With a nod, John followed Sherlock down the hallway.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: Read the sequel story: ["After All."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/293133)
> 
> Vital Stats: Originally written in September 2011.
> 
> Originally written as part of the "Fall Back into Sherlock" fest at [Sherlockmas.](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com)


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